


O U T L A W

by whiskeydazed



Series: Dandelion Dust [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: A bit of Slice of Life tbh, A lot of angst with Arthur, Additional Tags to Be Added, Angst, Arthur struggles with PTSD and anxiety, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Growing Up, One-sided love in a way, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Slow Burn, Swearing, Whump, seriously lots of swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:35:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26899795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeydazed/pseuds/whiskeydazed
Summary: Dutch had an old friend. That friend had a daughter, a daughter he wanted to protect, young Jane Doe. It was Dutch who stepped up to the babysitting business, besides, Arthur needed a friend his age. Dutch raises them together, as best friends, closest allies. Arthur has Jane’s back, and Jane has Arthur’s, they were his best tag team. Though time tests their wills as much as it tests their loyalties, they face the end of the Wild West.All they can do is fight, all they have ever done is fight, and by God fighting is how they will go.Outlaws to the very end.
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston & Jack Marston, Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston, Annabelle/Dutch van der Linde, Bessie Matthews/Hosea Matthews, Dutch van der Linde & Original Character(s), Dutch van der Linde & Original Female Character(s), Dutch van der Linde & Van der Linde Gang, Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan, Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde, Hosea Matthews & Original Female Character(s), John Marston & Arthur Morgan, John Marston & Dutch van der Linde, John Marston & Hosea Matthews, John Marston & Original Female Character(s)
Series: Dandelion Dust [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1962739
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. Birdsfoot Trefoil

Lyle’s lungs heaved something awful, taking on more smoke than oxygen. He coughed fiercely, stumbling through the flames that roared in his small cabin. Where the hell was that boy? Where was that fucking kid? He tried to open his mouth, call out his name but nothing made it past his throat, nothing but a fit of sputtering coughs. His lungs burned and ached as the cabin began to fall apart around him, he didn’t know if the kid was still in the house, and he wasn’t sure if he cared or not.

The back door had been blocked by blazing fragments of the roof, Lyle was left with no choice but to flee to the front, where he knew men would be waiting for him. He used his shoulder to bash the door open, mustering all the strength in his lithe body. Once, twice. The door finally gave after the third strike, the force of his body being driven straight onto the porch, his hands immediately gripping onto the steps and pulling him further out of the clutches of Hell’s front gate. The cool muddy ground was welcome on his scorching body, the air had more oxygen for his poor lungs, but still felt hot and tasted smokey on his tongue.

He realized then that the entire town was on fire. But there were no screams, no panic, no people in the streets hollering for their lost spouses or children. _Children._ Where was he? He forced himself up onto his shaky legs, feeling like those of a newborn fawn. He looked around frantically, eyes wide as he could not see into the dark corners, everything drowned out by the wickedness of the flames, lapping at the night sky and destroying everything in its wake. He began to breathe heavily again, but this time out of sheer panic, the cold, hard grasp of desperation around his heart. That boy never left his side, he was always in sight, so where the hell was he?

“My, does this look familiar, Morgan.” A larger figure made its way from the ignited pathways, Lyle was surprised to see him alone, a nasty growl made its way up his throat, a scowl placed hard on his features.

“Pa!” A shrill voice cried out, and Lyle realized all too late where that damned boy had run off to. The figure gripped him hard by the collar of his shirt, yanking him back, the boy nearly fell, choking a little against the force of the man.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Lyle roared and the boy flinched back, torn between his fear of the strange man, and his fear of his father, “he’s just a damn boy, let him go!” The sound emitting from him was guttural, filled with rage, but strained and hoarse from the smoke inhalation. The man before him only gave a nasty smirk, lips curling upwards, more out of sinister intent than humour.

“But that’s never stopped you, has it, Morgan?” The man hissed, releasing his grip on the boy’s collar, only to immediately grab the small arm when he tried to run. The boy cried out, his little fingers trying to pry open the much larger, calloused ones. “No, you beat on this boy every day, don’t you?”

“God dammit, Kilwinning!” Lyle bellowed again, “let the boy go, for fuck’s sake, this isn’t his fight!” The man wasn’t wrong, and Lyle knew it. Lyle had never done anything right by that kid, had never been a good father, or even a decent one. He let his own anger and troubles get the best of him, using the kid as a means to let out all that pent up steam. The kid erupted with terrified shrieks and screams, digging his heels in as he tried to rip his arm out of the steely grasp, Lyle could find little amusement in it. He had never given even an ounce of love or affection to that boy, but now, with those crocodile tears threatening to spill over a hardly innocent boy’s face, _his_ boy’s face, he could feel nothing but raw fire in his chest, as hot as the flames around him. He deserved none of this, this was his own fight and his alone.

Kilwinning met his glare with one equally as nasty, his nose wrinkled in rage and disgust. He let the boy go, but not without a shove. The boy collapsed onto his rear, but quicker than anything he scrambled back to his feet and ran away, disappearing in seconds. “It's just us now.” Kilwinning jeered, taking a few steps forward while Lyle dared a step backwards.

“Where’s Marston, huh?” Lyle growled at him, his eyes glinting dangerously. He wasn’t a good fighter, a scrapper at best, he was better at shooting, his hand instinctively went to his holster, only to find it empty. He felt his stomach drop while Kilwinning cracked into an ominous chuckle. Lyle tried to control his breathing, steady his thundering heart. “You two are best buddies now, right?”

“Marston’s dead, Morgan,” Kilwinning snorted, continuing to step towards the smaller man, who began to tremble in his place, “and soon, you will be too.”

“What the hell did you do to him?” Lyle asked nervously, eyes darting around, looking for an alleyway that wasn’t completely engulfed by flames or blocked off by debris. Maybe, he thought, maybe he could make a break for it, he’d always been faster than Kilwinning, always been able to slip into places that the other could never.

“Nothing that I ain’t gonna do to you!” Kilwinning roared, lunging at Lyle, finished with the talking that filled the crackling air. Lyle just barely withstood the charge, gripping tightly onto Kilwinning’s wrists, his hands were buried in Lyle’s shirt. His shaking legs barely holding up against the weight of the other, Lyle made a desperate swing at Kilwinning, his fist connecting hard with his jaw. It disoriented him just enough that Lyle could shove him away, the other barely stumbled, regaining himself quickly with a newfound vigor. He bared his teeth and the two connected again, swinging and missing and swinging, again and again. Kilwinning had returned that punch to the jaw, landing Lyle onto his back. Kilwinning got on top of him, gripping his shirt and pummeling into his face.

 _“Pa!”_ That shrill shrieking could be heard again, and the pounding stopped. Lyle’s face felt almost completely numb, he could barely see, all he could smell and taste was the blood. Coppery. “Stop it!” The boy’s hopeless cries continued, and Kilwinning stopped if only for a moment. He delivered a last, hard backhand to Lyle’s bloody face, resulting in a loud grunt and a hard thud into the muddy ground. Copper on his tongue and grit in his teeth.

Lyle spat blood onto the ground, heaving and coughing. “That all you got? Big bastard.” He weakly jabbed at him, pushing his torso onto unstable arms. Kilwinning kicked him in the ribs, forcing him back down.

“Fucking pathetic, Morgan.” Kilwinning sneered, using the toe of his boot to roll the man over, drawing his cattleman revolver, glinting gold and ivory, aimed right between his eyes. Lyle snarled with what energy he had left, hissing and spitting blood.

“Gonna kill a man in front of his son?” Lyle wheezed, side-eyeing the boy who stood, traumatized and eyes wide. He heard Kilwinning cock the gun, heard all too clearly the way the bullet was chambered, he wrinkled his broken nose, “fucking remorseless.”

“You said it yourself, Morgan,” Kilwinning hissed, “the bastard ain’t your son.”

Before Lyle could even open his mouth again, growl out some kind of retort, some kind of pathetic insult, Kilwinning had pulled that trigger. The gunshot echoed off of the burning and ruined buildings, mixing in with the rolling thunderstorm that brewed just overhead, threatening to rain. He let out a final sigh, almost relieved as he set the revolver back into its holster with heavy finality.

He would have left right then, he had his back turned, ready to whistle for his horse, but the sad and scared whimpering of that boy caught up with his ears. Kilwinning made a half turn, seeing the way the boy still stood where he was, hardly five feet from his dead dad, trembling and in shock. He grumbled quietly to himself, walking with heavy footsteps back to the body, picking up the hat that had been thrown off a little ways away.

“You… You killed him,” The boy barely croaked, trying to hide the all too noticeable shake in his voice, “you killed my pa.”

“‘Course I did.” Kilwinning responded bluntly, he approached the child, who flinched but still stood strong. Kilwinning was amused by him, the way his big eyes were welling up with tears but there was still a ferocity, his small hands balled up into tight fists. The kid almost looked feral.

“Why?” The boy asked, a shudder and a sniffle interrupting him. He bit his lip hard, trying to stop his tears from spilling. His gut twisted and turned, every fiber of his being begging him to run fast and run hard. His pa was an awful man, but whatever kind of creature that stood before him was much, much worse.

“He was a bad man, kid.” Kilwinning’s tone never changed from the same blunt, monotone sound. Didn’t bother to sugarcoat anything for a kid barely into his first decade, “bad men don’t get to run away and live happy lives, they don’t get to have all of their problems just disappear.” 

The boy quivered as he drew closer to him, Lyle’s old black gambler hat in his hand. Kilwinning roughly shoved the hat onto his head and the boy’s breathing hitched, there were still speckles of his pa’s blood on the rim of the hat, still the warmth in the cap. It barely fit on him.

“What’s your name, boy?” The man asked.

“... A- Arthur. Arthur… Morgan.”

Kilwinning’s gaze bore down heavy on the boy, feeling the first droplets of rain on the back of his neck and on his shoulders, Arthur’s raggedy shirt started to get wet. “I will remember you, Arthur.” He grumbled out, whistling for his horse.

Arthur watched the man leave, mounting a behemoth of a horse and riding away. He swallowed hard and looked down, orphaned and abandoned, left on his own with nothing but a dead pa and the remains of a now smoldering town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Birdsfoot Trefoil - Vengeance.]
> 
> Dat dadadaaaaa !!!!
> 
> Welcome to the remastered version of Outlaw, my loyal readers! For those of you who have never read the original version, welcome to my very first story!
> 
> I truly and really hope you will all like this, and for those who read the original, I hope you find this version much more enjoyable!  
> Of course, I am always open to constructive criticism and tips and tricks for writing!!
> 
> Thank you all so much for being here with me!!


	2. Petunia

The buildings crackled and popped as the flames hungrily devoured them, drowsily flickering to and fro. Arthur found himself captivated by it, staring too deeply into that familiar ruddy heat. The way the world seemed to burn around him, sputtering and sizzling out of control. In a way, he could relate to those flames, out of control and burning bright with an insatiable hunger. He felt as though he were spiraling ever downwards, where there was no bottom.

Angry, sad, empty… Hopeless.

Arthur had stayed in that small town, watching the way everything seemed to come apart. The rain had snuffed out what it could, but the coals were still glowing by the time the sun showed itself at dawn, gray clouds still heavy in the sky. A man had ridden by, stopping to ask him what he was doing there all alone. Arthur couldn’t find the courage to say anything to him, his tongue felt fat and heavy in his mouth, felt as though it had gotten caught in his throat and he might just choke on it.

Even without an answer, the man still offered him a ride, asking him if there was anyone or anywhere he could take the boy to. When he didn’t answer, the man simply took him to the nearest town, giving him a couple of bucks and a few cans of nonperishables in an old satchel.

“Use the money wisely, only buy what you need.” The man had advised before he rode off, leaving the boy on his own. Left alone, abandoned once more and lost, but now in an unfamiliar place, far from home. He wondered where home even was, was it close? Could he walk there? He wanted to ask the people of the town, but their harsh looks upon him and the criticizing, worried comments they would make always left him wordless. Eventually, he chose not to bother, making his home out of a particularly comfortable alleyway.

This place was foreign to him, it wasn’t like the small ride-by towns he grew up knowing, not at all like the countryside he’d grown to love. The smells of whatever the factories burned gave him a headache, on top of all of the noises. He hated it.

The food and the little bit of money that the good samaritan had given him only lasted two weeks, he stayed holed up in his alleyway for three more days before hunger drove him out. A gnawing, twisted feeling clawing at his gut, ripping through him and coming from his mouth in the form of hopeless whimpers and whines. Begging for scraps. Everyone who passed him gave him pitying glances, empty words of ‘if I only could’, as hollow as the crater in his father’s head.

Nobody could spare him much and a part of him understood, everyone was struggling, everyone had mouths of their own to feed, but that part of him had grown bitter and cold, resentful and angry. Bile rose in his throat as he eyed the fruit stand, a woman handing out apples for ten cents a pound. His mother would be furious with him if she ever knew he was even thinking of stealing. His mother would pinch his ear, sit him down and sternly tell him  _ no. _

His mother was not here, not anymore. She lied colder than his father, and even further down.

Arthur tried not to think about it, his head swimming and stomach burning as he ran, feet hitting the cobblestone hard as he passed the fruit stand, managing to scoop up two apples. The lady shrieked at him, demanding him to stop as she reached out to snag his wrists. Arthur was faster, but clumsy. He brought the rest of the fruits tumbling to the ground, he tripped over them, losing his balance, one foot stepping on the other. He dropped the apples and decided to run away without them. His stomach cried in agony and tears burned at the corners of his eyes. Everyone was staring at him, their gazes filled with hatred, their hands reaching out to grab him, bruise him. He ran as fast as he could.

Failure. He ran all the way back to his bolthole.

Screw up. He threw himself behind the boards that had been propped up to form a crude lean to.

Good for nothing. He couldn’t even be half the terrible thief Lyle had been.

Arthur choked on an empty sob, angrily rubbing the tears from his eyes with his dusty fists, dark thoughts consuming him. The silence drowned out by nothing but his own demons that lived on in his head, if he didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought Lyle was still alive, his voice echoing in his mind. That angry, gravelly voice with the slur at the end. Spewing vile words when he was only a couple of drinks in, then beating and kicking him relentlessly when he was thoroughly drunk. Asking-  _ demanding _ to know why his pathetic excuse for a son couldn’t be anything worthwhile, anything to be proud of.

Arthur never had an answer to those questions. He tried to prove himself in any way he could, but somehow, he was always better at finding out how he could make everything worse. He never did stop trying, though.

Everyday Arthur tried harder, he bit back harder, he fought harder. He didn’t always succeed, but everyday he became better at what he did, the lawmen might’ve even considered his work half-decent if he weren’t such a damn plague on the town. His bounty wasn’t worth much, almost nothing at all, but it served as a reminder for him to always keep his head down.

Anyone who owned some kind of business had come to know who the boy was, and as the years passed and the boy remained, the word got out to the citizens. Only, with the years, he had become almost proficient. The town had gotten larger, almost a city now, with more places to hide, more places to run, and even more people to rob. There were more strangers passing through, more tourists visiting and seeing what kinds of views the place had to offer, and each one of them had been pickpocketed by that feral child that hid somewhere down Fifth street.

Arthur had moved up in the slums, now living in the upstairs of an old saloon instead of on the street. The saloon was the oldest in town, but wasn’t the most popular. Everyday there were less and less customers, the owner starting to move on to greener pastures, finding new investment opportunities elsewhere, he never thought twice to check if he had a squatter in the attic. It wasn’t the warmest, or cleanest for that matter, but it was a roof over his head nonetheless.

He pulled on his boots, the sole was barely staying on one boot, the other one a toe was daring to stick through. They just barely fit now, he sighed to himself, pulling a small stack of cash out from under his blankets. Soon, soon he could buy himself a new pair of boots, he reckoned that with one more nicely dressed man he would have the funds to do so.

It was the height of summer now, the time when the most tourists came through. He figured this should be easy enough. He snuck down the alleyways, squeezing his body through the flimsy chain-link fences that had been set up. The streets were bustling with people, horses, and wagons alike, Arthur felt a twinge of anxiety burn at his chest, the slightest hint of doubt ate at the back of his mind, but still, he pushed forward, mingling into the crowd. With a crowd this large, stealing was never hard, he just had to be quick about it, quick and quiet.

_ “Hey!” _ Not quick enough. Arthur gripped the satchel to his chest, he had used his pocket knife to cut the strap, tried to be quick about taking it, but the man had ripped around before he could disappear, just barely missing him with those clutching hands. He didn’t realize that the man had a friend, and the two gave chase to him. He shoved people out of the way in a frenzy, dipping in and out of vendors, even running into someone’s house and leaping out of an opened window, shouting apologies for disturbing the lady who lived there. He could still hear the men behind him, shouting for him to stop while breathing hard. He didn’t stop, what kind of fool would?

There was a fence, the one time he looked behind him to search for the men, he had run down the alleyway with a fence in it.  _ He _ was the kind of fool who stopped. He slammed his body against the chain-link, creating a rattling sound against the rusty material. He tore around to see the strangers come around the corner, winded and sweating, but still pursuing.

“You sure can run, can’t you?” The seemingly younger of the two wheezed, leaning forward onto his knees for just a moment before regaining himself, sweeping back a few stray strands of raven black hair with his hand, “how ‘bout you drop that bag, son?”

Arthur spat at them, turning around and jumping up onto the fence, just beginning to climb when he felt a pair of strong hands latch onto his ankles, yanking him back down to the cobblestone. He hit the ground with such a force that he was winded just for a moment. The man attempted to grab the satchel from him but Arthur kicked him in the gut, forcing him backwards with a heave, Arthur stood up, gasping heavily. The man stared at him with a smirk, gripping his stomach, he raised his free hand up.

“Listen, son, I ain’t want any trouble, I just want my satchel back, then we can... We can talk.” The man cajoled, the older of the two gave him a look, if he had any words to say though, they were not spoken. Arthur stilled, but kept a death grip on the satchel, he wrinkled his nose and glared angrily at the men, daring them to take even a step forward.

The younger man did, he took two, and Arthur threw the satchel as hard as he could at the man’s face, a can of nonperishables concealed by the satchel made contact with the man’s nose. He yelped, gripping his face and stumbling back. Arthur tried to run again, but the older man caught him, wrapping his arms under Arthur’s and placing his hands on the back of his head. Arthur kicked his feet, thrashing his body around. He stomped as hard as he could onto the other’s toes with the heel of his own flimsy boot. The man grunted and threw him to the side. Arthur tripped over his feet, catching his fall with his hands and rolling over, scooting backwards until his back hit the opposite wall.

“That store clerk sure wasn’t kiddin' when he said you was feral!” The younger laughed,  _ laughed _ at him. Arthur hissed and spat back at him. “Is your foot okay, friend?” The man asked the other, who leaned against the parallel wall, gripping his toes through his finely shined boot.

“As perfectly fine as stomped-on toes can be.” The older responded, his voice not nearly as deep as the other’s, and rather nasally too. The dark-haired man continued to chortle, one hand still pinching his nose, looking at it to check for blood. Arthur was disappointed when he didn’t see any.

“Now that’s all well and done, son, are you tired yet?” The man smiled at him as charmingly as possible, Arthur felt as though he might be sick.

“I still got a hell of a lot more up my sleeve.” Arthur growled at him, his eyes darting between the two men, preparing himself in case they were both to go at him.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.” The man crowed, crouching down to help Arthur stand up. He felt that familiar anxiety bubble up and choke him, though the man seemed gentle with his reaching hands, Arthur’s instincts told him to defend himself. He acted faster than either of them could react, he grabbed onto one of his arms, biting down as hard as he could into the soft flesh. The man cried out, gripping his hair with his free hand, every time the man yanked at his hair, Arthur bit down harder, enraged,  _ terrified, _ shaking his head like a desperate dog tearing scraps from a bone. The coppery taste of blood made it onto his tongue, Arthur breathed hard enough to spit it back against his teeth, loosening his bite just for a moment to readjust higher onto the arm, and biting down again. The man dug his thumb into the corners of Arthur’s mouth, pulling hard on his lips, trying to get him to let go.

“Shit, Dutch!” It was the older man who pulled him away from his victim, his arms wrapped around him as though he were hugging him, as if trying to soothe him. Arthur still spat and snarled, the blood splattering onto the ground as he yelled incoherently at them, his hands clawing and raking at the arms that held him, leaving behind red marks. The dark-haired man stared at him in complete and utter shock, gripping his bleeding arm, “are you alright?” That nasally voice asked.

“I’m- I’m fine, Hosea, thank you.” He breathed, inspecting his arm for a moment, nothing terrible, nothing he couldn’t heal from. He wondered what he did to the boy to have him react so savagely, “was you raised by wolves?” He asked the boy, who growled at him, eyes wide and almost glowing with rage, hissing and spitting through his bloody teeth. Hosea kept his grip tight around him, lifting him when he jumped and kicked, trying to wriggle his way free, Hosea didn’t let him.

They waited for the boy to tire from his struggling, eventually the two were sitting on the ground, Hosea trying to soothe him while the boy breathed fast and hard, jaw still clenched and eyes still wide. He had stopped struggling now, no longer scratching up Hosea’s arms or trying to make a run at Dutch’s throat, his shouting had quieted to almost understandable whispers.

“What’s your name, son?” Dutch finally asked after what seemed like forever, after Hosea finally allowed the boy out of his vice grip, letting him crawl a little ways away and lay up against the wall, cornered by the fence.

“What’s it to you?” The boy grunted at him, though the fight was gone from his body, it seemed he still had the attitude to bark out retorts.

“Just curious, is all.” Dutch shrugged, side eyeing Hosea who shook his head.

“We should leave him be, Dutch.” He advised, “we’ve been gone awhile, Susan will wonder what’s keeping us.”

Dutch elected to ignore his companion as he continued to question the boy, “where do you live? Around here?”

“What does it matter?!” The boy became increasingly agitated again, his hands going to his sides, pressed hard onto the ground, ready to leap up once more at the man. 

“Dutch?” Hosea called, standing up and patting the dust off of his pants, reaching a hand out to his friend’s shoulder, but the other did not look at him.

“Do you need a place to stay?” Arthur could not believe the amount of questions the man, Dutch, had. His ears felt like they were buzzing just by his voice alone, as if he were some high society man, dressed as another nobody. He sat in the corner, becoming more and more roiled by him the longer time went on. An anger burning hot in his belly, his veins felt like fire, realizing his muscles were completely tensed, but refusing to relax. He didn’t give another response to the man.

It felt like forever before they finally left, Arthur barely remembered it, he had spent the entire time hoping, praying that they would go away. The older man, Hosea, had finally pulled Dutch from his questions, insisting that they return back to their camp, Dutch saying something along the lines of coming back to ask him again, picking up his satchel off of the ground and leaving promptly after.

Arthur didn’t care. He didn’t want to care, he was fine living where he was, leading the life he had. He didn’t need anyone’s help or anyone’s pity. He didn’t need anything from anyone, he got by on his own.

He didn’t need anyone.

Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Petunia - Resentment, Anger.]
> 
> Good evening [or morning!] my friends !!
> 
> Here we are with the long awaited second chapter of this rollercoaster of a story ! I think it's slowly getting to go on it's roll, I'm so super excited to keep writing this !!
> 
> I hope you all enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy writing it !!
> 
> Please let me know what you think if you want !
> 
> Have a wonderful day/night, lovelies !!


	3. Columbine

Her knuckles felt raw against the washboard as she vigorously scrubbed a stain out of one of Dutch’s several button-up shirts. Her fingers were pruney and arms tired, a miserable feeling wearing on the back of her neck and forming a tense headache at the front of her mind. She could already hear Dutch’s velvety smooth voice saying something along the lines of ‘you’re always miserable, my dear’. He was charming and, unfortunately, he was right. Always Mr. Right.

Susan paused her laundry washing when she finally heard the heavy footfalls of horses. Hosea’s tall Cleveland bay thoroughbred and Dutch’s dapple gray Andalusian crested over the hill and made their way to their resting grounds, the two men chuckling and playfully taunting one another. She noticed the way Dutch seemed to tender his right arm, trying to be subtle as not to worry her, but she knew. She always knew, afterall, she was Ms. Know-it-all.

“You boys are an hour late.” She grumbled, squeezing the excess water out of the shirt she had been scrubbing, pinning it up onto the clothesline to dry. Last time she checked, the town of Arabella had only been a half hour ride, grocery shopping didn’t take much longer than another half hour, all together the two men shouldn’t have been gone longer than an hour and a half, perhaps two hours. It had been three. “Just where the Hell were you two?” She asked, not bothering to look back up at them as she sauntered over to the pot that hung above the campfire, giving the vegetable soup that was cooking a stir.

“Chasing cutpurses around the slums.” Hosea responded nonchalantly, hopping off of his horse. Dutch had followed suit, shooting a sharp look over at Hosea who smirked at him, Dutch didn’t want his sweetheart adding any salt to his wound if she found out. The both of them knew that Susan would not hesitate to put Dutch through the wringer over a simple injury, even a small rip in his shirt was enough to send her on an aggressive tangent, ranting to him about something along the lines of ‘I would appreciate saving our supplies, not wasting them on your stupid tricks.’ A lovely, kind lady she was, he had no idea how he was worthy of her presence.

“Cutpurses?” Susan mused, sipping a little bit of the soup from the spoon, it could use a little more thyme, perhaps some basil. She promptly sprinkled the herbs into the soup, stirring a little more before tapping the spoon on the side of the pot, “sounds like quite the adventure.”

“Well, it was really only one cutpur- Susan!” Dutch hadn’t made himself comfortable by the fire for longer than a couple of minutes before Susan yanked his bitten arm up, inspecting the marks with her shrew-like eyes. She muttered some words under her breath, wondering what the man had gotten himself into, no doubt. She released his captive arm for a moment, leaving to retrieve the medicinal supplies from their shared tent. 

Hosea approached, sitting next to Dutch on the log, stretching his long legs out so that the soles of his feet could be warmed by the fire, taking a deep breath and smelling the wonderful soup that still simmered. He had brought with him a bottle of whiskey, to which Dutch grinned and Hosea winked, uncorking the bottle, he offered the younger man the first swig of the strong liquor, though before Dutch could accept, Susan had returned. She yanked his arm back up to be further examined, Hosea only chuckled while taking a guzzle of the whiskey. Dutch felt the tips of his ears burn, he had no idea how he was going to explain that a feral teenager had bitten him without being put under Susan’s scrutiny. He supposed he already was under her scrutiny.

“So, you go and get bit by a dog with a set of human teeth?” Susan teased, grabbing the bottle from Hosea’s hand and dumping a fair amount onto the bitemark, causing Dutch to yelp, nearly jumping out of his skin. Hosea stared at them, looking surprised with his now empty hand still held out, awaiting the bottle to be returned. Dutch continued to hiss while Susan wrapped a bandage around his arm, refusing to return the liquor to its rightful owner. “How the Hell do you even go and _get_ bitten by a person, Dutch?”

“It was that cutpurse we was chasing,” Hosea piped up, leaning over to swipe the bottle back from where it sat by Susan’s feet, he didn’t get away without a good slap to his hand by her, “a boy that was so wild, you’d think he was raised by animals,” He chuckled, “even the general store’s clerk had a mouthful to say about him, talkin’ ‘bout how if ‘he ever got his hands on that little bastard, he’d have his hands!’”

Susan raised a brow at Hosea, “well, that sounds a bit much, doesn’t it?” She commented, patting Dutch’s bandages when she was done fixing them. She retrieved three tin bowls, filling them with the fresh simmering soup, offering the two men the bowls before settling down on a stool with her own, “what else happened?” She urged them.

“You didn’t meet the brat,” Dutch snorted, scooping a fair amount of soup into his mouth, immediately regretting it as he breathed haphazardly against the heat, eyes widening despite his attempts at refusing to let anyone see that it was burning him. Susan watched him with a mean spark in her eyes, a teasing smirk crossing her face, Dutch just barely managed to swallow the soup down, “we- we was- _damn_ \- we was walking down the street, towards the marketplace where the fresher fruits would be sold, got my satchel strap cut off by the boy, so Hosea and I chased him.” He continued to explain, coughing slightly. Hosea began laughing at the recount.

“Right, then we cornered him and the bugger threw the satchel at Dutch’s face, damn near broke his nose with those cans in there,” He snickered on, “gave my foot a good stomping too when I tried to grab him.” Hosea smiled in a good natured way, flexing his foot inside of his boot, his toes still felt quite sore, a little swollen, but it was nothing he couldn’t walk off.

“So?” Susan shrugged, eyeing them as she blew on a spoonful of soup, “you still have yet to tell me about you gettin’ bit.” Dutch cleared his throat as he choked down another spoon of soup, though telling by the redness of his ears, she figured it had nothing to do with the taste.

“He was sitting on the ground, and I, figuring that he was calm, went to go help him up onto his feet.” Dutch muttered.

“So he bit you then?” Susan snorted, Dutch hanging his head ever so slightly while Hosea laughed even more.

“Oh, I don’t know what you’re laughing about, Hosea,” Dutch snapped, glancing up at the older man, “you seemed quite.. _Upturned_ when everything was happening.”

“Because this is just karma, dear friend,” Hosea smiled boastfully, “I did tell you it was a bad idea to go chasing a feral dog with meat scraps, and look where it got you.”

“Well, he did a number on you too.” Dutch grumbled back, shoveling more soup into his gob.

“Only one number, my brother, but plenty on you.” The older smiled. The three adults sat in silence, mostly comfortable if not for Dutch’s silent brooding. Hosea humbly thanked Susan for the soup, praising that it was ‘as good as always’ before retiring himself to his tent. Susan got up and made her way over to Dutch, placing her hand on his shoulder and taking his empty bowl from his hands, placing it on the ground. She then sat in his lap, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. He wrapped his arms around her waist in turn.

“What’s wrong, then?” She asked gently, staring at him intently while he continued to stare at the flames of the campfire, not bothering to return her gaze. Susan waited patiently though, afterall, Dutch was a man of many thoughts, sometimes he needed more time to process what was going on in his mind. Eventually, he turned his head to her, his deep brown eyes searching her own.

“That boy,” was all he uttered, somewhat quietly, just barely above his breath. Susan rose a brow at him, tilting her head ever so slightly in confusion.

“What about him?” She asked, running her right hand down from his shoulder to his arm, over his ringed hand that lay on her knee, grasping it gently. He lifted the hand, repositioning it so that her hand laid in his palm, his fingers delicately wrapped around hers.

“He just reminded me of myself at that age,” Dutch sighed, “angrier than all Hell, just tryin’ to get by in a world that keeps movin’ faster than him.”

“Dutch, my dear, you are still that way.” Susan muttered, though smiled in a reassuring way, earning a cheeky glare from the man. He playfully shook his head and pushed her off of his lap, earning a surprised yelp.

“Dutch van der Linde!” She barked at him, slapping his knee. He laughed with her, reaching out for her hand and helping her back up, she chose to sit beside him on the log instead of on his lap, brushing the grass and dirt from her dress, pretending to sulk about it. He quieted himself to low chuckles, helping pick off pieces of dirt from the fabric before pulling her close to his side.

The sun was just about fully set now, the sky a dark purple that faded to deep indigo, little stars dusting the sky, a crescent moon shining down on the two. The fire had burned itself out, embers still sputtering out the last bits of their life. Susan snuggled closer up to him as the night chill creeped up on her.

“Were you thinking of doing something?” Susan asked after a while, Dutch hummed in response, still deep in his thoughts and plans.

“I was going to invite him to join our little family.” He revealed, Susan jumped up a little as she glanced at him. For a year now it had only been the three of them, adults, vagabonds that roamed the countryside and robbed from rich folk every now and then.

“Are you serious, Dutch?” She fretted, “that’s a foolish idea. Adoptin’ a boy with no social skills and a habit of bitin’ people?”

“Well, it ain’t like he’s not gonna learn.” Dutch sighed, lifting his left hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. He knew she would be against the idea, even Hosea was against it. But he just couldn’t leave that boy alone in that town, with all that fire he had, Dutch knew something good could come from all that holy terror.

“Fine,” Susan grumbled, crossing her arms under her chest, refusing to look at Dutch who stared at her in mild shock, “you can bring the stray home, but if he goes and tears down the camp, so help me God, Dutch.”

Dutch grinned at her, though Susan refused a hug and retired herself to bed. He knew that Hosea hadn’t seen anything beyond a troubled child, and that Susan was nervous about an untamed mess running wild, but he saw something that could turn out to be much more than that. He wanted to give the boy a life that wasn’t just stealing a loaf of bread to get by for a day, just as a man had given himself a chance a few years back, he wanted to give this boy a chance as well.

By dawn, Dutch and Hosea had their horses saddled, promising Susan that they would be back soon, and set off to Arabella to find the boy.

“You know, Hosea, I wouldn’t have minded going by myself.” Dutch spoke, wrapping the reins around his hand, better gripping it.

“Nonsense, Dutch, if my friend is going to go get himself into trouble, I wanna be there to see it,” Hosea crowed with a great grin on his face, always brighter than the sun, “besides, I know how lonesome you get when I ain’t here with you.”

“I’ll have you know that I actually don’t mind being alone.”

“Well, then I guess we’ll be alone together, right?”

“Whatever you say, my friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Columbine - Foolishness.]
> 
> Sorry for the long wait, folks !! University is kicking my ASS.  
> Our lovely Miss Grimshaw makes her debut in this chapter, and she's as lovely as ever!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, our favourite unholy rascal will be back in the next one, I promise!
> 
> Have a wonderful day/night, lovelies!


	4. Aloe

“What are you doing up?” Lyle’s gruff voice caught him. Arthur gulped slightly before sitting down and leaning back against the old stairs, he hadn’t made it more than two steps down before the old wood had creaked beneath the weight of his small body, the noise bouncing off of the walls that barely held together, alerting the gaunt man who sat at the kitchen table, staring out the window into the moonlit woods. He hadn’t bothered looking at Arthur, it was just the two of them after all, of course Lyle would know it was him.

“I- I was only hungry…” Arthur barely muttered, holding his teddy bear tight against his chest, the last thing he had of his mother aside from a few photographs, but Lyle kept those photographs under lock and key, hidden away where they could never be disturbed or ruined. Lyle finally glanced at Arthur, letting out a grumbling sigh, pointing at the other chair with a heavy hand as he stood up, stumbling towards the cupboards. Arthur quickly stepped down the stairs, climbing into the chair as Lyle had silently instructed him to do.

They didn’t have very much food since Beatrice had died a couple years back, she was the only thing holding the little family together. When she left, things started to wear down. Beatrice had a green thumb, she could grow vegetables like it was nothing, she sold those and always brought home canned goods and fresh meats with what little money she made, Arthur remembered she made an amazing soup. Lyle was never so fortunate, when Beatrice left, the plants had died… And so had Lyle. He had fallen apart almost totally, nothing could console him, not even the drink. Arthur often tried, but Lyle had never been the affectionate sort, always giving him a nasty scowl when he tried to hug the man or say comforting words. Arthur remembered his mother often trying to do the same thing, to get close to him, hold and comfort him, especially when the man started breathing heavy, staring into the shadows with wild, crazy eyes, seeing things that not even the boy could comprehend. Arthur never understood what was wrong with his pa, nobody ever told him either, his ma would tell him that ‘he just gets a little scared sometimes, that’s all’. He supposed he could understand, sometimes he got scared too.

“Here.” Lyle grunted, setting a small can of cherries down in front of him, as well as a spoon. Arthur perked up, eyes big. Cherries were his favourite. He wondered if Lyle remembered that about him or… A glance at the cupboards told him otherwise, he noticed how they were all nearly empty, aside from some bread rolls and half-full liquor bottles. He felt guilt weigh heavy in his stomach, he felt greedy. He knew he was eating everything, he rarely saw his pa eat anything. His pa looked so frail now too, he had always been on the thinner side but, Arthur remembered how strong he used to be, able to pick things up twice his size. But now…

“What’s wrong?” Lyle asked, side-eyeing the boy as he took a rather large swig from the bottle he held in his bony hands. Arthur didn’t respond, he couldn’t bring himself to. Instead, he pushed the can away from him, towards Lyle. Lyle raised his brows a little before snorting, the faintest hint of a smile on his face.

“The Hell you doin’?” He rasped, shaking his head and pushing the can back towards the boy, “cherries ‘ave always been your thing, kid, I don’t care for ‘em much.” Arthur gave him a confused look, but shrugged his shoulders anyway, taking a tentative scoop out of the can and putting it in his mouth. He knew Lyle was lying, he remembered a time when Lyle had put cherries on everything. Oh, he remembered, Lyle had always put cherries on everything, because _Beatrice_ had loved them so much too.

“That ain’t true…” Arthur gently whispered, “momma used to like ‘em too…” Lyle didn’t say anything, he saw the man tense slightly, his fingers curling into his hands, forming soft fists. His silhouetted throat moved as he swallowed hard. He inhaled deeply, unfurling his hand and tapping his fingertips against the table.

“… Yeah… She did like ‘em.” Lyle sighed, Arthur thought he could hear the ghost of a whimper. He felt sad, no longer having the energy to scoop more cherries into his big mouth. If he felt this way, he wondered how his pa must’ve felt.

“Do you… Miss momma?” Arthur found himself asking, albeit carefully, staring down at the bottom of the can, hardly two mouthfuls left. Lyle stared at Arthur, he had Beatrice’s eyes, his hair, though. He hated that anything of his was passed down. The boy looked about as thin as he did at that age, or rather, _still_ did. But the gentle curve of his cheeks, those green-blue eyes full of wonder, it made his heart sore. How much of his mother the boy reflected, his big heart so open to everything, so kind, despite all the cruelties of the world. Despite all the cruelties of _him._ He desperately hoped that Arthur would turn out nothing like him.

“More than you’ll ever know.” Lyle muttered, curling his fingers around the neck of the liquor bottle, but finding no energy to lift it to his lips. He heard the chair squeak against the floorboards, heard the small footsteps make their way over to his side. Arthur pushed the nearly empty can onto the table, along with the spoon.

“Are you awake ‘cause of the monsters?” Arthur asked, catching Lyle a little off guard.

“What monsters?” He bantered, though the boy’s face remained serious.

“Momma used to say you was scared of monsters…” Arthur admitted softly, playing with the right ear on his teddy bear, “sometimes… Sometimes I’m scared of monsters too.” Arthur lifted the bear up, waiting for Lyle to take it from him. The boy tried at a smile, but faltered upon seeing Lyle’s more stoic face.

“You… want me to take the bear?”

“He keeps me safe from the monsters… I thought he’d keep you safe too.” Oh. Sweet child. Lyle sighed, gently pushing the bear back into Arthur’s arms, the boy looked at him, confused, sad. He knew the boy only wanted to comfort him, to try to piece back together what had been broken. If he was honest, he didn’t want to be fixed. Especially not by his own young son.

“His job is to keep _you_ safe, kid,” Lyle assured, picking up his hat from where it lay on the table, setting it on Arthur’s head. The hat was too big for him, it fell over his eyes. Arthur lifted the brim up so he could see, a big smile on his little face. Lyle knew he loved the damn hat, an ugly old thing that he stole off of some drunk feller awhile back, but Arthur had always been fascinated by it, “I reckon wearin’ a big, scary cowboy hat might make them monsters more scared of you.”

“Can I have a pistol too?” Arthur asked enthusiastically, but Lyle nearly paled as his little hand reached up to inspect his revolver that was on the table. Damn, he should’ve put that back when he had finished cleaning it.

“Nono, No.” Lyle quickly spoke, gently prying his hands away from the weapon, “your mother would come back just to take me with her if you ever held a weapon. ‘Sides, the hat is scary enough.” Arthur pouted, giving him a disappointed look. Lyle sighed before picking the gun up, opening the cylinder on it and emptying out all of the bullets and shells that were in it. They all made clattering noises on the floor, but he didn’t mind, he could pick them up later. Once he was sure the weapon was about as child-proofed as a gun could get, he tentatively gave it to Arthur, feeling a small glow of pride in his chest when the boy’s face lit up.

“Thank you, pa.” He grinned at him, Lyle sighed, barely suppressing a roll of his tired eyes.

“Yeah, whatever, get to bed now, it’s very late.”

“Okay.” Arthur smiled, confidently running back to the stairs, stopping to look back at Lyle who had gone back to staring out the window, sadness heavy in those eyes. Arthur’s smile faded away, “... I love you, pa.” He called to him.

Lyle didn’t respond, but the boy noticed the way he closed his eyes, his brows furrowing to suppress his feelings. It was enough for Arthur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Aloe - Grief.]
> 
> A bit of a shorter, filler/flashback chapter, involving Lyle!  
> Lyle was a mean man, and not a great dad, but he wasn't always terrible to Arthur! (Should I mention now that he will be getting his own book by me?)  
> Also! Arthur is about 6 years old in this chapter- Beatrice passed away a year before this takes place. It is evident that Lyle still feels this loss very deeply.
> 
> Fun fact; Lyle and Beatrice were young parents, Beatrice was 18 and Lyle was 19 when Arthur was born.
> 
> The next chapter will have us back where we left off before, so if you aren't one for fillers, that's okay! We'll be back on track soon <3
> 
> Thank you all SO much for the kudos, it means the world to me and truly keeps me going, and keeps me excited!  
> I hope you all have a lovely night/day!


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